of superheroes and nations
by myrskytuuli
Summary: It is a new age of superheroes and aliens and miracles. Nations watch as the world turns and sometimes have encounters with their heroes, villains and even friends. Collection of loosely connected short stories of the nations in the MCU universe.
1. happened once in new york

New York is a battle ground, and in a battle ground it is easy to miss one teenager running through the rubble. Technically he shouldn't have been there, that was what the National Guard was there for, to take the civilians away from the battle, but for some reason it seemed that this particular teenager had no problem running past the blockades, passing the National Guard and head towards the heat of the battle.

The teenager was stopped by an alien in front of him. A chitauri warrior, big, grey, and covered in alien armor. The entirely normal young American man with an internship at the white house and the ordinary chitauri warrior with undefinable place in the chitauri empires ranks, stood facing each other while the unholy sounds of battle echoed around them.

 _You have already lost._ The chitauri told the boy, with language that neither the new yorkians nor the chitauri fighters around them would be able to understand, but which was both the boy's and the warrior's natural language. _Do I look like I'm fucking losing!_ The boy with the golden hair answered, the bloodstain seeping through the back of his jacket. The boy swung his fist towards the alien, who blocked the blow, and retaliated with a swift kick.

The two danced together with experience and power that could have brought entire armies down. There were however certain rules which by both of them were bound, rules that had made sure that they would meet in the battlefield.

20 minutes before the portal over New York had opened, a boy named Alfred F Jones had been in Washington, drinking coffee in a coffee shop. 20 minutes before the portal had opened over New York, warrior Klaxer had been standing on the mother ship hull, next to the grand admiral. Then the portal had been opened and the Chitauri-empire started invading the United States of America.

 _No one has managed to invade me you know. You really think you're gonna succeed!_

 _I have brought down galactical empires before you were even born you young pathetic earthling! Breaking you and all of your kin will be nothing to me!_

 _You talk a lot for an old geezer, maybe it would be time to retire!_

The boy ripped of a traffic sign and swung the metal beam to crash against the alien's head, who returned the favour by thrusting the end of a spear into the boy's stomach. The dance continued bloodier and harder.

Far away from the battle a decision was made, and nuclear weapons were launched. In the heart of New York one Alfred F Jones was thrown on to the rubbled street, an alien boot pushing down on his throat, choking the bleeding blond. It wasn't the alien above him that flooded the blonds mind with dread, it was what he suddenly could feel nearing him. He could faintly remember the cherry blossoms that had once blossomed near the Japanese hospital, and he was afraid.

 _Finally, you have realized your fate under my hands._

 _It's not you I'm afraid of!_ The boy calls, with hysteria lacing his voice. The chitauri releases some of the pressure on the boy's windpipe in confusion. The warrior is not as naïve and brash as the army mowing down the city around, this warrior has seen enough battles to sense when things are taking a turn.

There is fear mixed with anger and desperation in the blue eyes as the boy draws a gun and points it at the chitauri towering over him.

 _I'm sorry, but it's rather you than me._

He shoots and the bullet lodges deep into the grey flesh.

Over the skies of New York, Tony Stark guides a nuclear missile to collide with the chitauri mother ship in the deep space.

Warior Klaxer howls in agony as the soldiers still hooked on to the life support of the mother ship lose their connection and fall to the ground, twitching and gasping for breath that is no longer being transmitted to their bodies and as millions are incarnated with the mother ship.

Alfred F Jones rises to up, legs shaking and blood dripping from his mouth. _I would not try coming back for this planet again._

Warrior Klaxer teleports away, in a way only this particular group of beings can, to where the rest of his empire is, light years away.

Alfred F Jones is soon found by the National Guard who drag him to the doctors. In fifteen minutes he is claimed by the government agents, who wave the doctors away. Soon those the hospital workers will forget that they had a boy bleeding to death in their hands, who was then carried off into a black van.

The avengers each at one point glimpsed the blonde boy in the street, but cannot yet remember doing so.


	2. have a drink or twenty

Under the UN building was one of the best kept secrets of the world. A secret meeting floor. Originally when the UN building was being planned, it had been meant for the secret floor to be placed on the top of the building, but those plans were soon scrapped, in favour of the cellar floor, seeing that it was much harder to throw anyone out of the window in a windowless room.

Today there was an undercurrent of excitement running in the air of the modestly stylish meeting room. The representatives in the room, all curiously looking to be in their twenties, were waiting for a guest.

"Hey Dudes Asgards here!"

The American barged through the door, followed by a moderately young, dark skinned man with golden eyes and golden armour, as befitting of the golden realm of the universe. His posture controlled and proud, as befitting the realm eternal, the protector of lesser realms, the kingdom of gods, the realm above others, the- There was an arm slung around his shoulders.

"Dudes. This is Asgard, Asgard, these are the dudes."

The realm eternal felt a headache forming.

It seemed that these midgardans took the diplomatic meeting to be just some kind of prelude for the more important part of the evening, when the bar cabinet was opened and suddenly alcohol was flowing as freely as in an Asgardian mead hall.

"You see Asgard, I understand you. When I was an empire, I had to deal with all the same problems. Unruly colonies. All those jealous upstarts. But we are above them."

"It is my belief that you are no longer an empire."

"You shee, you see, it is all in the mind. You don't let them get under your skin. That's the trick. You deal with enemies on a dishnified manner, that's…tha'tsh what I told America. Did he listen, no. Never listens, ungrateful brat. No he goes and starts this cold war nonsense. I told him, I told him…it is not healthy. Not healthy to get so fix…fixhated on your enemy. That's what you need to do. You need to stop this pettiness with Jot-jotten-Jotu- with that frozen one. That's, that's, what's that frog?!YOU WANT TO COME HERE TO SAY IT TO MY FACE!"

Asgard was finally released from the grip of drunken England who made a beeline for the blond Frenchman.

"Ayah what is going on in here?"

"I believe, that what we are witnessing is a drunken fistfight."

"Those children, honestly. Come, come! Let us make away from the European barbarians and talk like civilized nations."

China was small in size, but had a grip made of iron. There was a gentle flush of alcohol on the Asian nation's face as he guided Asgard to sit down and placed a cup of Huangjiu on to his hands.

"It is a shame that you only ever visited the barbarian side of the globe in the past. Now if you had visited my kingdom some thousands years ago, I could have shown you what true culture looked like." China was slowly migrating closer and closer to Asgard's personal space.

"There was never much reason for me to intervene with the goings of this planet."

China found this hilarious. "Oh you! You make me feel so young again!" Asgard inched backwards as much as he dared. He was starting to get concerned that if the Asian nation wouldn't stop getting closer, he would have china sitting on his lap. "But it is most noble of you to keep such…distance. I'm sure it would be very easy for you to take…advantage of a youngster like me."

"Oh my God! I can't believe what I'm witnessing!" There was another Asian nation, with bobbing haircurl and gobsmacked expression, gawking at the pair of them and Asgard realised that he was mortified. ASgard hadn't been embarrassed in centuries, probably not in millennia. China on the other hand was still migrating towards his lap.

"Guys! I think China is trying to flirt!"

"China can flirt?!"

"What where?!"

Asgard beat a hasty retreat, dropping half-lidded China down on the barstool, just before the entire Asian continent stampeded on the site.

Looking for an escape, Asgard spotted a distinctively familiar face in the crowd.

"Norway. You have grown."

Norway, nodded and slightly toasted his glass in Asgard's direction. "It is good to see you again."

Asgard mentally sighed in relief. Norway had always been a serious and silent child and it seemed that his personality had not changed. Sticking with Norway would be both socially acceptable, because of their past ties, and easy for Asgard's nerves.

"And how have you been faring-" Asgard's dreams of a dignified evening were shattered when he heard a sound that had long ago haunted his nightmares.

"ASGARD! You old civilization you! Bet you weren't expecting see me grow this handsome! You know what we should do?! We should-!"

"Denmark." Norway cut in, stopping the other nordic's chatter.

In his mind Asgard could hear the echoes of that same annoying laugh, but much younger and in front of his eyes flashed memories of a small child biting his ankles, hanging from his helmet, beating his knees with a wooden sword, pulling his cape _hey! Hey! Asgard how do you do that? Can you teach me? Why are you dressed like that? Why do you do that? Why are you looking at me like that? Hey! Pay attention to meeee-!"_

"This is so nostalgic, don't you think Norway? Yeah I think so too! Hey Swe! Ice! Fin! Come say hi to Asg!"

"My name isn't Asg."

"So as Asg here was saying- Wait what were you saying?"

"You haven't changed either, Denmark, I see."

"Of course not, why would I?"

It is going to be a long evening for Asgard.


	3. realm un-eternal

After Heimdall resumes his place at the end of the rainbow bridge, he notices the silence. It has never bothered him in the past, but now, after the noisiness of earth, he notices the silence. Has it always been this silent?

Heimdall lets himself turn more into Asgard than Heimdall, letting his essence spread, his senses settle over his land. Let's himself sense and see everything going on in his land.

It is a lie that he would have all seeing eyes, but it is a lie that helps protect the monarchy and the land by proxy. He might not be able to see what happens outside his borders, but the rumours keeps the citizens happy. After all this is Asgard and Asgard is the greatest and the most powerful realm that there is or ever was, or ever will be.

But Heimdall can't reach the calm trance he has become used to ever since the monarchy found a way to use him as a guard. He cannot let go of Heimdall to become the watchman.

He keeps thinking back to earth, to its chaotic inhabitants, full of vibrant colour and life. Such fleeting life, filled with so much passion. America wasn't even halfway to his first millennium, but already he had claimed the loyalty of the crown prince of Asgard, in a way Asgard feared that he never could. They were so incredibly fluid, their people living such fleeting lives that wars fought not a century ago could be easily forgotten and forgiven.

Asgard tried to remember what it had been like when he had been young. Before being a hegemony. Before the monarchy even, long, long time ago. Sometimes he almost remembered faint voices that might have been his siblings that he might have devoured to become strong. He could almost remember the strong arms of Niflheim, his first guardian, lifting Asgard up.

Asgard tried not to remember the time when he had had a companion, a friend like no other. Instead Asgard tried turning his eyes towards the space, where the vanaheimian lot were, proud sisters who would stab you in the back as fast as lay with you. Beautiful vanaheimians, who loathed Asgard behind his back, he knew. He looked at Svartalheim and remembered the darkness. Remembered the insane empire of dark elves that had lived there. He looked at the space where the most loathsome creature in all the nine realms lived, the monster, the savage.

 _Oh don't worry, I will always be there, we won't have to be alone, we'll have each other._

Jotunheim was a scourge upon the universe, but Asgard was glad that the miserable planet was still there. When Loki, the abominable bastard, had turned the Bifrost against Jotunheim, Asgard had regretted allowing the allfather keep his baby monster. It was one of Jotunheims, of course it would go bad.

 _You think this war is my fault! Go look yourself in the mirror if you want to see a monster!_

But Jotunheim was not allowed to be killed by some offshoot of the royal line. What miserable end it would be, to be killed by one of your own. No, When Jotunheim's time would come, it would be delivered by Asgard himself.

 _Tonight, I'll call you Heimdall, if you call me Ymir._

No, Asgard did not want to think of Jotunheim, he hadn't wanted to think of Jotunheim for a long, long time now.

 _I'll call you Heimdall, if you call me Ymir._

Instead he thought of Midgard. He wondered if in the next millennium the midgardians would devour and kill each other, until a new representation would be born. A proper realm, like had happened in countless other planets. The Vanaheimian sisters were an expectation and they had several moons and satellite planets under their influence. For one small planet to host hundreds of cultures, all so distinctively different, seemed impossible, seemed dangerous, but there they were.

 _Of course I'll stay the night Asgard. You only ever had to ask!_

The Midgardian personifications were small, and anyone could see that by dividing their planet's power amongst so many would leave them weak. They would never compete with Asgard, or even with Muspelheim, when it came to galactical power. There would never be a Midgardian hegemony when it was already so divided. But still…they had been so incredibly free at the same time. Asgard could never imagine that his king would let his realm have such un-interfered and free exchanges with other personifications. The humans seemed to treat their nations like persons instead of as idols or weapons.

Once again it seemed to point towards the midgardian's lack of wisdom, to not use their nations to their full potential, but it elected curiosity in the realm eternal. The chaos, the innovation, which came with their fragile lives. It was a steady beat of something that spread into the minds of the citizens of the golden realm. That insignificant realm suddenly seemed to be on everyone's minds, from the servant to the smith, as rumours flew and as the curiosity of the people grew. Asgard was changing, or at least harboured dreams of changing.

 _Hi! My name's Jotunheim! Who're you?_

Soon it would be time for King Thor to take the throne and maybe by then the curiosity of the people would be great enough for Asgard to try something new, to meet new friends, to reconcile with the old ones.


	4. the prince with eight crowns

To those who study occult, understand occult, many mysteries in this world are opened and many questions answered. Still, even for those that became masters, who not only knew but understood the occult, there were mysteries that would forever defy everything they knew to be true and challenged the world that they thought that they had mastered.

Nations were one of those things. The existence of nations was something that had driven more than one man into insanity and forever existed on the peripheral of possible things. Most of the time it was easier for those with no knowledge of occult to accept the nation avatars, than it was for those who had spent their life studying the impossible. They were the epitome of impossibility and what was worse, if you brought this fact up with one of them, they would laugh. They would laugh and point out that even they didn't know how they had come to being. Then they would go about their day, doing something utterly mundane like eating a sandwich or doing the dishes.

But there were some things that were agreed on about this impossible group of beings and it was that war was like a breeding ground for them. With enough blood on the soil, new ones seemed to pop up and die at equal measure. Therefore it maybe should have been expected when the little boy wandered in and tugged at coattails of Johann Schmidt. The boy had almost unnaturally pale hair and eyes that were reddish brown, with the red seeming, in right lighting, to become more clear than brown.

There are soldiers in there that are spluttering and outraged and baffled at how a child had found its way inside the secret meeting room. Johann Schmidt is none of these things. He is high enough in the political hierarchy that he has met both Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt. He believes that once aliens walked on this earth and left behind a cube that would grant all of his wishes. He believes in lots of things and he believes in this little child that looks up at him like he hung the moon on the sky.

"Hail Hydra!" He calls and picks up the child. The child laughs, a perfect and innocent laugh.

* * *

Humans have many kinds of misconceptions about the nations. Either they cannot comprehend their inhumanity, having trouble believing their healing abilities, fearing their strength, having trouble wrapping their head around their connection to their land, people and history.

On the other side, some people cannot accept their humanity. They get uncomfortable every time a nation shows their emotions, get thrown of the loop by every papercut and every complaint of boredom. They find it even harder to accept that these beings form friendships and feel the same scale of human emotion as any of their citizens.

It is a select few people in history who have been able to comprehend both sides of these beings. To understand that at the same time they had blood of millions on their hands and at the same time there had never been a nation-avatar born truly twisted, that on some levels they never truly succumbed into true evil. As long as even one of their citizen had a decent heart, there would be a spark of kindness in the nation-avatar.

Hydra was a sweet child, but he was also a war-child and nations knew that war-borns were better of killed while they were still small and weak. Otherwise they might bleed you dry like parasites. Prussia knew this when Hydra approached him. Prussia had killed of his fair share of states over the centuries, but Prussia had also cried himself hoarse when The Holy Roman Empire had been dissolved. Maybe he had become old or maybe it was this war that had forced the stench of death deep into his bones, but he didn't kill the child where he stood when meeting Hydra. Instead he looked at the child with eyes too tired and ruffled its hair. "I'll fix you up a room." He had said.

Hydra had looked up at Prussia with nothing but adoration in his gaze. "When I grow up, I want to be just like you, big brother."

Prussia had a little brother already, and he was dying, coughing up ashes while his boss strangled him into a half-dead monstrosity. Sometimes it seemed that all of Prussia's life was watching his little brother dying.

"We're not brothers," he told Hydra. "Germany is my only brother." There was a hungry gleam in the child's eyes that Prussia recognized. Hydra saw Prussia as the ultimate war-mongrel to emulate, Hydra was a stupid child that thought that they were going to win this war. (That they should win this war) Still Prussia did not do the dirty job with his own hands, but left the war-council to give Hydra status as an independent organization that the German's did not need to take care of. He was just delegating the death of the child to the fates.

* * *

Johan Schmidt comforted Hydra after he had been rejected by the other nation. "It is because you are better than them." He would whisper to his beloved Hydra. "You were meant to rule over them all, not gain their affection. That is your destiny." Hydra believed, because that was what he had been born to do. Hydra had been born to believe that he should rule the world. Not an uncommon belief amongst his kind, but not a belief that had left many of his kind survive either.

Hydra was a child bathed in blood from the first, not unlike Prussia had once been. But Hydra was born into a world after the idea of a total war, into a world already so full, and he loved his daddy too much to ever grow. Physically Hydra never aged past boyhood and how could he have. He had no economy, no culture, no art, no land and no trade. These were all things that gave one maturity, which Hydra never gained. He stayed a child, grasping onto his dying caretakers, downloading Arnim Zola's mind into the hard-drive so he could keep it with him forever. He keeps his toys that he has stolen from others tightly by his leash, winter soldier being his favourite just because he stole it from America.

Hydra hates America more than he hates the others. Prussia is nothing anymore, Germany was scared into a peace-seeking fool, both utterly unimportant to him after he broke free from both of them. He has hidden in Russia's home long enough to know that the giant is in reality weak and broken and soft. But America, America he hates because his captain killed Hydra's daddy. And for that America would one day pay. Everyone would of course bow, but America would suffer the most.

* * *

Hydra hid in dank basements and stole scraps from the tables of real nations and build underground laboratories, knowing that eventually he would rise into his true glory. The dank basements were just a phase that seemed to drag on for decades.

Hydra is a weak and sickly child, but he keeps on living. SHIELD does not have a personification, because SHIELD agents still hold their motherland in their hearts. Hydra doesn't allow that for those that join him.

Hydra uses his people like paper-wipes, disgracing them with a flick of his hand and keeps telling his ever smaller base of followers how the promised day draws ever nearer. He likes to paint crayon drawings of the future where he sits on the throne of the earth and on the corner a bright yellow sun smiles down at him.

He is not an utterly evil child, but he will be killed of eventually. The heroes will tick off the evil henchmen and even the moderately bad henchmen and even the average henchmen, until one day a gun will be pressed against his small head and some real nation will pull the trigger.

(It will be Prussia. The kid was our- no my responsibility to begin with. He will say. I've killed states before. Hydra will scream and cry and beg. How are you still alive, I don't understand how did you go on after your ideology died-please tell me-save me-. I changed. You are not capable of doing that.)


	5. Mother Russia cries for you

Natalia was dying. She was leaving behind her a red trail in the already dirty snow. The snow in Moscow never stayed clean, and now it would be dirtied even more. Somewhere in the distance the hustle and bustle of the city could be heard, but Natalia was not listening to it. She was listening for footsteps, she was listening and calculating how long it would take for her chasers to get to her.

Natalia was dying and she didn't know how to feel about it. Death had always been close to her and she had been trained to accept the possibility of death with calmness. She was not however calm, her heart was racing and her lungs burning, trying to compensate for the weakness that grew and grew.

Soon her handlers would find her and put her down. She would go down into the grey snow in the backstreets of London and with her would go down the memory of the red room. This was what made her most bitter. There had been so many girls in the red room, little girls and then much less teenage girls and then even fewer young women. The only place where those girls now existed was in her memory and soon even that memory would disappear. Soon the men chasing her would be the only ones to know of the existence of the red room and their memories would be an insult to the dead.

Natalia probably shouldn't get this righteous, she had been the one to kill many of those girls. Gladiator fights in sterile white rooms that had turned red by the end of the matches, little girls of no more than twelve staining their hands with blood.

It might be that she deserved to die in the dirty snow, but she wished it wasn't by the hands of her handlers. She wished it would have been by someone who could at least have the satisfaction of gaining revenge by her death. It would at least be a useful death then.

Natalia was much stronger, faster and resilient than your average assassin, but these men had made her and they knew how to unmake her too.

"Object on sight!" Heavy boots slamming in the snow, rifles lifted to her direction, these were all things Natalia could hear.

A sound of metal hitting skull, screams, a body being thrown against the brick wall. These were also things she could hear.

Turning around, this is what she could see:

Five bodies, dead on the ground. Two had their heads bashed in, one had snapped his neck hitting the wall, and two had died of means she could not instantly recognise. Over the bodies stood a tall man with pale hair and a pink scarf. He was holding a dripping lead pipe. Natalia could not recognise the man, but there was some sense of familiarity in him. Some that she for the life of her could not place.

"Don't be afraid, Natalia." He said, like somehow that would be possible. He took a step forwards and Natalia shuffled backwards. Seeing this the man stopped and looked incredibly sad. "I'm sorry I did not mean to frighten you, but you are hurt and need help fast. I can feel you dying already."

"Who are you!? How did you kill them?!" Her handlers had been all holding firearms, the stranger wasn't. There had been five of the handlers, the stranger was alone. How had no one heard of the stranger approach? Why did she had the sudden urge to throw herself to the stranger's arms and cry?

"The red room has never been officially approved by the Russian government. I had a loophole."

Natalia just blinked. The wound on her side still bled sluggishly and made her feel slow. Nothing coming out of the stranger's mouth made any sense.

"Come now Natalia. You are safe now. I want to help you."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

Natalia wanted to punch him. Wanted to scream and scratch and stab him. Because I love you. How dare he utter words like that to Natalia, who he had never met even before.

"They have taken all the others from me, but you are still alive. I will not let you die like the other girls. My little girls… Valeria and Oksana and Anna and Elena and Olga and Maria and Eva and…"

He was reciting the names of all the girls in the red room. At least Natalia assumed that the names she didn't recognise belonged to the girls whose names she had not learned. The list was long, so long. Natalia could see tears forming in the pale blue, no violet, eyes as the man finished his list. Tears were also forming in the corners of her eyes and those were not because of the wound. She had been taught to handle pain without tears.

Natalia had no strength to fight back and more alarmingly no will to fight against being lifted up to the man's arms, easily as she would weight nothing. There was a lingering scent surrounding the man that reminded her of the home she had lost so long ago. A whiff of pinewoods, home-cooked kasha, a well-loved woollen blankets, and smoky Russian caravan tea.

Natalia cried. For the first time that she could remember, she cried truly, deeply and all-consumingly. She cried as the man carried her for who knows where, humming old lullabies under his breath and holding her in an embrace that felt so much more deep, so much more vast and circling and safe than any embrace had any business being.

* * *

Natalia woke up in a bed, in a house in central Moscow. There was a cup of warm tea by her bedside and a vase full of sunflowers by the window.

Slipping from the bed, Natalia made her way entirely silently across the room and into the kitchen where her host had his back turned to her and was cooking breakfast. She picked up a knife from the table and knew that she could stab the man in the neck before he could even turn around.

She put the knife down.

"You heal fast for a human."

"Where are we?"

"In my home." The man answered and finally turned around, placing the plate in front of Natalia, gesturing for her to sit down. She did.

"You can call me Ivan." The man finally named himself and sat across from Natalia. "Is the wound gone?"

Natalia lifted her shirt enough to see the now sealed flesh. It would be completely healed in a week. Ivan also looked at the red flesh with curiosity and then returned to his food.

"It would seem that it gave you some of the healing abilities too."

"The serum? How do you know all this? Who are you really? What's your connection to the red room?"

Ivan's violet eyes settled on Natalia's owns and stayed there. Staring into the eyes almost gave her slight vertigo, but she couldn't look away either.

"What was pumped into your veins in there, was first taken from me. I cannot forgive that, as what the red room did was evil. Sacrificing Russian children was unforgiveable."

"You created that serum?"

Ivan didn't answer, just stared, and the vertigo caused by the pull of those eyes worsened. The spell only ended as the man stood up and broke the eye contact.

"You will no longer be safe in here. There are several organizations that want you dead and the Russian government would rather see you dead than risk the exposure of the red room secrets. You will need to leave the country." In here Ivan's voice wavered slightly. "You will not be safe in Russia."

As fast as the tremble had come into his voice, it was gone. "You will pose as my sister and travel with me to Helsinki. In there a friend will take you to a ship heading to America. I will return with my real sister back to Moscow. You will head to New York. The American's are paranoid enough about Russian espionage that anyone after you will have hard enough time getting even through the borders."

"And you don't think that for that same reason the Americans won't take me down?"

"I have spoken on your behalf for an acquaintance in America. Make a good impression on them and you might have entirely new life ahead of you."

Ivan pulled out a passport, with a picture of a woman with long blonde hair and facial features that resembled Natalia's own quite a deal. Natalia Arlovskaya, read the name in the passport. There was an unfamiliar stamp on the passport that read: International relations, Belarus, full clearance.

"With my sister's papers there won't be anyone that would dare to question your movements."

* * *

A week later in the Russian embassy Natalia was again handed a new passport. This one was for Natasha Romanoff. Her hair had now been turned from blonde to black and she still wasn't sure if the whirlwind of her life wasn't some fever dream cooked up by her brain in the cold Moscow alley. She still didn't know who exactly Ivan Bragnisky or his mysterious sister Natalia Arlovskaya were. Only that their names opened up lots of doors and that for some reason unknown, Ivan had decided to protect her. Someone else might have started to believe in guardian angels or miracles, but not her. Natalia-no, Natasha, did not believe in miracles.

Which left her with no explanation whatsoever, only endless questions. Spending the week with the mysterious Ivan had been enough time to fill Natasha with questions to last a lifetime.

"Go now. Tino will show you to the harbour."

"I still don't understand. What do you get in return from helping me?"

Ivan's smile was incredibly sad. Broken even. "There is red on my ledger. I would like to wipe it out."

Natasha hesitated, but soon the irresistible pull that she felt towards the tall man won out and she pulled Ivan into a hug. This was the first time in her life that she had initiated an embrace, but with this person it felt natural. There was again the smell that could only be described as "home" and the utter feeling of belonging being this close to Ivan. The taller man's tears left a damp spot on Natasha's shoulder, but when they pulled apart his eyes were clear.

"Thank you." Natasha said and meant it. Then she turned around with heavy heart, but at the same time feeling a new sense of freedom and lightness enter her. Natalia would be no more and Natasha would make her own way in America.


	6. Ich schenk dir mein Leben

During the second world war, Steve saw things. Things of beauty, and things of horror. Things of mundane and things of fantastic. Liberating Hydra bases had the unfortunate side effect that you became used to seeing things that you would never have imagined to be possible. Acts that Steve could never had imagined that another human being could be able to imagine, never mind commit. Most of these things were of such horrifying nature that they followed Steve through his dreams and even with time, would never truly let go.

But sometimes there were other things. Unexplained things, like the brief brush with death that Steve had behind the enemy lines in Germany. Like the man with red eyes, who had managed to match Steve on hand to hand combat.

* * *

They had been on a rescue mission, searching for lost troops, or more precisely looking for their leader, General Jones. The higher ups had been insistent that General Jones had to be found, sending Captain America himself to lead the scouting mission.

Things were not going to plan, which was highlighted by the fact that Steve and the Commandoes were currently in a middle of a hasty and unorganised retreat. Technically they had a strict code of always sticking together, but reality sometimes interfered, which is why Steve found himself alone in the middle of the German wilderness, desperately hoping that he was running in the same direction that his comrades had disappeared to.

Steve did not have time to ponder for such things for long, as it started to become clear that something was following him. Or someone. Steve had an inkling that he would not get as lucky as only having to worry about the local fauna. Slowing his pace, Steve tried to hone his senses. Was there a sound of footsteps on his right? Was that human made sound over there-

Something slammed into Steve hard on his right side. Something fast, hard and strong. It lifted him straight off from the ground with the force it slammed into him, and threw him several feet on to the side. As Steve rolled on the ground, his battle instincts kicked in, and despite the fact that all air had been punched from his lungs, Steve scrambled to stand up immediately.

Taking into account what his body had reported him, Steve wold have expected to be slammed by a rogue cannonball. What his eyes reported him was that he had in fact been assaulted by a human. The man with dirty Nazi uniform and ashen hair regarded Steve with eyes that, in the darkness, Steve could have sworn glinted pure demonic red.

"Oh, You're not America." The attacker said, looking vaguely disappointed. Steve did not stop to ask questions now that he had his footing back, instead opting to instantly take an offensive, throwing his shield to knock down the rifle from the German's hands. The German responded easily, leaning out of the way, but the shield thrown towards him did its job and knocked the rifle from the man's hands. Steve was not far behind his shield, fist ready to connect with the man's face. His punch however never got the change to land, as Steve's assailant grabbed the fist coming towards his face in his own. For a second they both stood still, Steve feeling a flash of panic realising that this stranger had stood his ground against his serum-enchanted strength. Then the shield, that had rebounded from nearby tree, struck the German in the head from behind, knocking them both apart.

The German however did not go down unconscious, as Steve might have hoped. Instead he nimbly rolled back up, cursing furiously in German and leaped again to Steve. A string of rabid German came from his mouth, that Steve had no hope of making any sense of. This time the German stayed close and kept Steve engaged, so that he did not gain the opportunity to throw his shield again, and did not have time to reach any of his weapons. The white-haired man was not only eerily strong, but terrifyingly smart fighter. He seemed to learn to predict Steve's fighting style by the seconds, and was viciously effective in exploiting every opening that was given to him. Not once had the man made any moves to reach for his rifle laying on the ground, and it was becoming clear that this man would not need bullets to win the fight against Captain America. Even in the midst of their duel, Steve couldn't help but wonder if he was meeting some rogue Hydra experiment. It would explain the unnatural eye colour.

"You're good." The German quipped with a large grin on his face, as he got close, face only inches from Steve's. "America has made you well." This close Steve could see that his own eyes had not been lying, the eyes of his assaulter were indeed red.

Steve felt the bite of metal going through his side. Another even sharper pain followed as Steve's attacker yanked the blade sideways, so that it left behind a long horizontal wound from his navel to his side. Blood spurted with abandon from the wound, and Steve could see his life flashing before his eyes. His legs wobbled, and his vision seemed to swing between overtly bright clarity and black spots.

He fell on his knees, one hand coming to rest upon the ground, keeping Steve still at least kneeling, and the other hand was holding onto his side where his body was unravelling. Standing over him the German man looked like the Devil itself, embodying all the horrors of this war.

Steve would have died then, he knows this, had it not been the perfectly timed intervention by his loyal friends. The Howling commandos, accompanied by the lost troops and General Jones himself, had come to his rescue in the last second, before the albino Nazi had time to bring his knife down to slit Steve's throat.

Through the ringing of his ears, Steve could hear Bucky shouting his name and an unfamiliar voice yelling: "You kill him, and I swear to God I will dropkick your ass straight out of Europe!"

"Oh Look. I'll have to surrender now." The German man calmly stated, still smiling that unsettling smile down at Steve and sheathed his knife back to its sheath by his belt. He looked faintly amused, and for some reason even content.

Upon later reflection, Steve would blame the blood loss for what he felt when General Jones stepped into his field of vision. There was nothing special about the man, if maybe not his youth considering his position. Dirty blond hair, average build, worried blue eyes behind glasses. There was nothing special about Jones, expect for the fact that Steve instantly fell in love with him, as he saw him.

Steve couldn't have looked away if his life would have depended on it, because this man, kneeling in front of him and efficiently checking over Steve's wound, was someone Steve knew he would die for without hesitation, without a blink. He wanted to reach out and protect General Jones, he wanted to fall down by his feet and just be accepted. He wanted to cherish him and he wanted to be useful to him. It was a fierce and patriotic love, and it felt like all the scattered feelings that had made him enlist again and again in the army, had crystallized into one ball of desperate love towards the oblivious General Jones.

"Hey! Take it easy okay." General Jones said, putting pressure to Steve's wound and meeting the Captain's eyes. "Thank you. For coming for me." Had Steve not been in such excruciating pain, he might have noticed how awe-struck General Jones was to finally meet the fabled Captain America.

"I would do anything for you." Steve exhaled, perfectly honest, and then promptly lost consciousness.

* * *

After that, Steve swam in and out of consciousness, never quite grasping what was real and what wasn't. In some of his dreams Bucky was crying over him. In others he was back in Brooklyn, and his mother was alive. In one, there was pain and yelling, and General Jones shouting: "It's fine, I have the correct blood type, I will donate-!"

Steve was pretty sure that he was awake, alive, and lucid, when he awoke to darkness, smell of blood, and pain throbbing on his side. He could more feel than hear the presence of another person by his side, but he was still too fatigued to make his new conscious presence known. He would have probably fallen back to sleep, if it hadn't been the voices entering the tent that made him curious enough to cling to consciousness.

"General, it's the prisoner, he insists on speaking to you. I told him-"

"Oh. Bring him in then."

"Sir. I cannot bring a Nazi prisoner in here when the Captain is laying right there vulnerable and you are attached to him by a tube."

"It's fine, Herr. Beilschmidt won't try anything. He knows he is outnumbered."

"With all due respect sir-!"

"Bring him here and leave us. This is an order."

"I…Yes sir." Came the faintly dazed reply of someone who sounded almost like forces outside of their understanding were compelling him to obey.

There was a spell of silence, and the smart thing to do would have been to make his presence known to General Jones, or to slip back to sleep. Steve didn't do either, but instead lingered in a sense of awareness.

There were again voices, of people entering the tent, of the prisoner being secured into a chair, of Jones ordering his men to leave, and finally an amused accented voice saying, "Look at you, you've grown up."

"Yeah, world wars tend to do that to a guy." Came the bitter response.

"Ah, but not that much I see. You still aren't used to it."

"To what? War? Who is used to war?"

"I am."

There was a spell of silence, which was broken by General Jones sounding incredibly tired.

"Why are you here Gilbert? I'm not in a mood for you right now. You almost killed the Captain."

The German snorted. "We are in a war junge. The entire point of it is to kill each other's men. It isn't like we haven't already mowed down thousands of each other's soldiers."

"But the Captain is-"

"Spezial. I know what he is. The instructions for building him came originally from us, don't forget that."

"…"

"He felt like you. That's why I attacked him. I thought that he was you."

"I didn't think that you would feel anything anymore, now that you are no longer a-"

"Don't say it bengel. The land you are standing right now still belongs to the Free State of Prussia. I still notice a trespasser when one so boldly sneaks through the lines."

"So tell me then, is the Free State of Prussia then in control of the Hydra compounds, one of which we just busted. Because what I saw in there, it sure didn't look like there were lots of love for the fatherland going in there."

The German barked a dry laugh laced with pure pain. A sound that for the first time made Steve realise that the man that had almost managed to kill him, was more than just eerie smiles and manic laughs.

"Aaah…Yes. Hydra. We are creating more monsters by the minute with this war. We should have known after what happened with Schmidt. Monsters breed monsters."

If Steve had had any doubts over eavesdropping into this conversation, all of those doubts disappeared in that moment. It had become clear that both parties of this conversation knew more about the project rebirth than anyone Steve had ever met, including Steve himself. Feigning convincing sleep became that much more important right then.

"I talked with Erskine once, he said that things went wrong with Schmidt?"

"It burned him from the inside. He lied to us, told us that he was doing it all for Germany. He pledged his heart and soul for Germany, and then the blood burned him from the inside out. You got lucky with the golden boy over there. It only works if they love their countries more than their own life. Nation-blood is too potent to be injected into a human otherwise. Schmidt didn't listen. He only saw a way to become one of us. That schweinepriester doesn't give two shits about Germany! I would kill him myself if I could! I would kill the whole lot of them!"

When it came to passion towards your country, this Beilschmidt didn't seem to have any problems. There was passion in his voice, true, pure, desperate, raw passion that sent shivers down Steve's spine, and forced him to focus on keeping his breathing even. Intellectually Steve had always known that most of the men that he met on the battlefield were not bad men. They were patriotic Germans, who fought for their country, just as Steve fought for his.

Still, the idea that the cruel violence, that had almost killed Steve earlier, was due to love, was one of those realisations of war that would haunt in the back of his mind for a long time.

General Jones' voice sounded small and almost weak compared to the passionate outburst from the German.

"How the fuck did we end up here? We used to be friends. You taught me to fight, how is it that now I have to fight against you again and again?"

"Gott, you are young. It is so easy to forget, how fast you have risen in power, how young you just are. Listen here kleiner adler." Now the German's tone took a much softer note. Almost shockingly soft coming from a Nazi prisoner. "This is not like the other wars. They are going to kill him. My brother has no way out. Hitler will not relinquish him to the allies alive, and if the allies manage to wrangle him from Hitler, then they will execute him. No, don't say anything, I want you to listen you damn yank! I'm here to tell you that if you win this war, you will spare my brother! The Europeans will demand blood, and that blood will be mine! The common consensus will be that I was the bad influence and you will agree. You will fucking argue for that point, and you will make sure that between me and him, I will be the one to die!"

"But…"

"You said it yourself. It only makes sense, after all, I am no longer a-"

"But we were friends! You taught me how to fight."

"Yes. I taught your sorry ass how to fight and now you will pay me back by putting a bullet through my skull when the day of judgement comes. You will convince the others to dissolve me when the time comes, not him! I will not watch my brother die, for what Hitler made him! Promise me. Promise me!"

Steve couldn't help it, his breathing hitched. The intensity and feelings in the room were too much. Both men instantly snapped their mouths shut and even thought Steve had his eyes shut, he could feel their eyes on him.

"I think that we are quite done here." The German prisoner calmly stated. Sounding again nothing more than an emotionless nazi soldier. The contrasts to his broken voice just seconds before was shocking.

After the prisoner had been taken away, it was again only him and General Jones in the army tent. Now that Steve had his eyes open, he could see that he and General Jones were connected by very dubious looking piece of equipment that had been scrapped together from who knows what and that now served to transfer blood from General Jones to Steve.

"You might have died of blood loss. The serum of course gives you already some healing abilities, but little extra blood can't hurt." General Jones smiled at him, a sad smile.

"Thank you," was the only thing Steve managed to say. They lapsed into silence. There were thousands of questions on Steve's mind, and he was too afraid to ask any of them.

After a long silence General Jones opened his mouth again. "When I was a teenager, I used to be little bit in love with that man." He confessed with a voice barely above a whisper.

Steve didn't say anything. There was nothing he could think of to say. The silence around them was heavy and Steve felt endless amount of grief. For General Jones, and for the world, and even for Herr. Beilschmidt, who was so desperate to die in the place of his brother.

* * *

The next morning, Steve woke up to the sight of Bucky sleeping on the same chair that had earlier been occupied by General Jones, and found out that their prisoner had escaped during the night. Nobody could explain how, but Steve had his suspicions, even if he kept them by himself.

* * *

70 years later, Steve Rogers was reminded of that miserable night of almost dying in Europe, while he was on his morning jog in D.C. He had been cooling down, enjoying the sight of people starting to fill the streets, when a loud group of three caught his eye.

A loudmouthed young American was leading an equally loudmouthed young German, if the accent was to be trusted, around. Between them walked a blonde who was a head taller than either of his friends and was face-palming at his loudmouthed companions' antics. Otherwise it would have been such a common sight, that Steve wold have hardly paid attention, you could see students leading exchange students around the city all the time, but there was a pang of familiarity in them that made Steve's heart constrict in his chest.

The American, who was currently arguing with his friend whether to eat at McDonald's or not, had the same shade of dirty blonde hair that General Jones had once a lifetime ago had. The memory of almost confessing his love to the poor man in his blood loss caused delirium, always brought up a mix of embarrassment and fondness to Steve, but mostly lingering nostalgia.

The shortest one of the group, the German with ashen blond hair, on the other hand brought back memories of pain and red eyes shining with blood lust, but also memories of a broken voice begging mercy for his brother. Steve wondered if that same voice would have sounded as light and happy in different circumstances, as the voice that he could hear right now, calling out: "Bruder! Don't lag behind!"

The three continued in their merry way, and Steve felt at the same time infinitely sad for those who had suffered so much in the past, but also so infinitely happy for the new generation, who had the change to grow up happy. He found himself hoping that all those years ago, General Jones and Herr. Beilschmidt had in the end found something akin to peace. That by some twist of fate the German man's brother at least had been spared. That not every promised horror in this world had been delivered.

For Steve, the horrors of the war were still painted behind his eyelids, but the world around him had changed and healed, and most of the time, the fact helped Steve to heal too.


	7. In the Land of Ice and Snow

_"The Finns have long been associated with magic. Sailors considered it bad luck to kill a Finn. The Norwegian kings forbade their citizens to travel to Finland to consult magicians. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the Swedish government searched for and confiscated goudbas, the magic drums of the Lapp and Finn shamans." -Finnish Magic and the Old Gods_

 _"Flagð, is rendered sometimes as giantesses, sometimes troll-women, sometimes witches. To make things more confusing, what is meant by "troll" often varies. It didn't necessarily mean a particular species of vaettir, but often simply a witch or magic user (or a Finnish or Saami person, who were all assumed to be magic users)"-_

 _"In those dwelt the wild people, who sometimes yearly, and sometimes every third year, broke from their unknown lurking places, and brought devastation over the levels, unless vigorously opposed, retreating with equal haste. These remnants of fennic races are demonstrably the Jotuners or Jotuns of the heathen scalds." -the History of the Swedes_

 _"In the song of Thiodulf to the honour of Thor, that god is termed the destroyer of mountain-wolves, the overturner of the altars of the Fornjotish idols, the conqueror of Jotuns and Finns. [-] so Snorro Sturleson, in the Heimskringla, uses Finns and Jotuns as synonyms." -The Natural History of Man'_

* * *

Year 965

The lights sparkled from Noregr's fingers as the spell took effect, and floated up towards the night sky to eventually join the northern lights. At least that was what Svearike always thought happened to the magical lights that Asgard was teaching Noregr to use. It seemed logical. Noregr probably knew better what happened to his lights, but as Svearike had never been taught the art of runemagic, he was content to make his own theories.

Danmǫrk was not as content to keep his wonder silent, and Asgard had already banned him from attending any spellcrafting lessons, as he was deemed to be too much of an distraction to Noregr. The loud southern land had complained, and then demanded that Asgard spent at least twice as long teaching him the art of the sword. Asgard had been forced to agree, just to get Danmǫrk to shut up.

Asgard had a clear plan on how he was going to teach his new wards. The three of them all had their places in Asgard's grand plan to create a civilization influenced by the Asgardian ideology. Noregr had been chosen to learn the art of magic. Danmǫrk, had been chosen to learn the art of the sword, which he had taken with enthusiasm that sometimes drove even Asgard to exhaustion. And Svearike had been chosen to learn the art of ruling. Asgard had painted a picture of the future where Svearike would rule over the entire realm, with the help of Noregr and Danmǫrk, and be beholden only to Asgrad, the one that ruled over all the nine realms. Svearike found Asgard's visions almost impossible to see in his own imagination, but was glad that Asgard was teaching him any way. Asgard was strong and wise, and was helping them defend themselves against the frost giants, who slaughtered their people indiscriminately and had claimed parts of Svearike's land as their own.

* * *

"They look just like my people."

Jotunheim glanced down at hir young protégé. It was a long way down to glance. Standing next to the full grown frost giant, the young boy looked microscopic.

"Maybe they do, but they are enemies."

"But are they really my enemies?" The boy grumbled silently. The frost giant heard it anyway.

"Are they not carrying the insignia of the royal house of tyrants around their necks."

Young Suomi kneeled down next to a body and pulled the hammer necklace from under the corpse's shirt.

"See?" Jotunheim said. "They have chosen to support the reign of the realm of the oppressors. And is it not true that those lackeys of Asgard keep attacking you?"

Suomi could do nothing but nod. Jotunheim was of course right. His people were never truly safe settling near the shore, as the Viking raids were always a threat.

"Asgard has taught them his barbaric ways, and I am not surprised. Come little Suomi. I will teach you some magic, so you may protect yourself from the savages."

Suomi followed his new friend, wondering if the corpses shouldn't be buried.

* * *

"My king."

Odin turned around, looking at his realm. "What is it?"

"I have found the reason why King Laufey and his army cannot be found."

"What is it?"

"The monster has help. It has taken one of the native lands as its apprentice and has taught its unnatural arts to that land. The Jotnar cannot be found because the land where they are hiding in is actively protecting and helping them."

Odin's face darkened and his grip on the spear tightened.

"Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Not me. This is not my land, not even my planet. But I'll see what one of my students can do."

* * *

Svearike was proud when it was him that Asgard chose for this mission. He wanted to prove himself to Asgard. That he was a worthy warrior too.

"Now listen well." The older realm prepared Svearike. "Be quiet, be quick. Anyone who has been taught the unnatural and evil magicks by the monster, needs to be killed quickly."

"But You have taught Noregr Magic too?"

"I have taught him runemagic. Which is proper, and good. The magic used by the monster however is an abomination."

"okay."

"Remember. Strike hard, and strike true, and bring the body straight to us. When it revives, we will make it tell us where the frost giants are hiding."

* * *

Svearike immediately noticed a flaw in his plan to sneak up on the Frost Giant apprentice and slay him. The fact that now that he had managed to find him, he couldn't seem to make himself move. Svearike had expected to find a monstrous being, the likes his people made stories about hiding in the woods in the east, a troll-like witch.

What he had found was a being much like himself and his brothers, only much more beautiful. The pale winter sunlight that made its way down between the thick branches of the fir-trees, illuminated hair spun from pale gold. The face that he had glimpsed underneath the hood, had been fair and alluring. He was dressed in simple clothes made of animal skins and furs, and had two long woods tied to his feet, which seemed to give him the ability to glide on top of the thick snowbanks without sinking in. Svearike, who himself had struggled in the thigh deep snow, found himself jealous and impressed at the same time.

From his place, hiding in the shadows of the trees, Svearike watched as this "Finlonti" stopped near the frozen lake, and prepared to make a fire. Svearike knew that now was his time. The other boy had not noticed him yet, and could be taken unawares. He didn't want to disappoint Asgard after all.

He bolted from his hiding place, sword tightly wrapped in his hand, and prepared to bury the hilt deep into the stomach of this foreigner. Finlonti let out a surprised scream, as he saw his ambusher, and threw a flaming log into the way of attacking Svearike. He had lost his element of surprise, and the distraction was enough to let Finlonti to back away from him, to stand panting and terrified in the slippery ice of the lake. Svearike also panted, from conflicting feelings, as he tried to find his own footing on the slippery ice where he had followed retreating Finlonti.

Finlonti had nothing but his knife gripped tightly in his hands, which would be nothing against Svearike's sword. But still Svearike did not strike. He was too busy staring into the enchanting violet eyes in front of him.

"You are the one from the west!" The mouth underneath those eyes said, in the language of the kingdom-spirits.

"And you are the one helping the frost giants!" Svearike answered, in the same language. He wanted to get closer, to see if those eyes were truly as queerly coloured seen up close, or if he was just imagining it.

"What do you want from me?" Finlonti demanded, voice as cold as the ice they both were standing on. However, one could hear an undercurrent of panic under the forced toughness.

What did Svearike want from him? He wanted to slay him, wasn't that right? Expect now that he was here, looking at his mysterious eastern neighbour, he did not want to do that at all.

"I… Asgard sent me-"

It was the wrong thing to say, as Finlonti's eyes flashed with visible fear, before he started to sing something in the savage language of his people. A spellsong, Svearike realised, as the ice underneath him opened up, and plunged him into the freezing waters below.

* * *

"You know that this is exactly the opposite of what you were supposed to do." Noregr pointed out in his dry tone. Svearike glared at him, underneath the bundle of blankets. He had died several times from hypothermia on his way home. It had not gotten any easier the more it happened. Svearike didn't want to tell anyone, but drowning in that lake had been the first time his physical body had died, and it was not an experience that he would have wanted to feel again.

"Well, I guess that Asgard should have gone himself, if he wanted to retrieve the witch of the east for interrogation." Svearike looked at Noregr with surprise. He had always assumed that the coastal land possibly worshiped the realm from above.

"Are you criticizing Asgard?"

"I'm just stating a fact."

Noregr rose and left Svearike to his own devices, with only his doubts and questions, and the memory of the beautiful being and his violet eyes, as his company.

* * *

"My king?"

"My realm. The council and I have come to an agreement. We cannot afford to lengthen this war anymore. If we want to put to stop to Jotunheim's influence through the nine realms, we must strike into the heart of the empire. We will start preparing for campaign against Jotunheim's planet itself from this moment on."

"Yes, your highness."

* * *

"Noregr, I will leave with you a gift. I will want you to look after it with all the magic I have taught you."

"What is it Asgard?" Noregr, asked, holding the glowing blue cube in his hands.

"It will protect you, if Jotunheim ever decides to start invading again. Keep it safe and secure, it is a powerful magical item."

"Yes Asgard."

"And Svearike."

"Yes Asgard."

"Hunt down that Jotunheim's pet realm. Letting him live will be a threat to all of you, and to all of the civilized world."

Svearike didn't say anything, only nodded, but in his mind a different resolve was already forming.

* * *

Year 2012

In the corner of the UN building's secret floor, Sweden and Finland were enjoying the show of Asgard being completely overwhelmed by the usual insanity that the earthly nations were bound to cause in the presence of alcohol.

"Well, he has not changed at all."

"He is a hegemony; I doubt that he's going to change anytime soon."

"hmm."

Finlands cheeks were gently flushed from the alcohol, and there was a wicked glint in his eyes, that Sweden so loved. "Do you think that he is still expecting you to hold on to his orders to kill me?"

"Well I would sure hope not, as he would end up quite disappointed."

The glint had not disappeared from Sweden's significant other's eyes. On the other hand, it made him look unfairly sexy. On the other hand, Sweden was slightly worried that his wilder half might cause an inter-galactic incident by doing something stupid while drunk. It was what Finland specialised in. Doing stupid things while drunk. When sober, he could be the most responsible and sweet man you would ever meet. After a beer however, he turned into a creature straight from hell.

"But I probably should not tell him that I still keep in contact with Ymir."

"You what?! Since when?"

"Since ze left. We chat every century or so. Or whenever I have time to take proper shamanistic astral journey. There is a reason I never got rid of the old witchdrum."

"How have I never known about this?!"

"I don't tell you everything."

His ex-eastern-half-of-the-empire and current boyfriend just smiled cheekily at him and then let his eyes roam back to assess Asgard. "I heard a rumour that they almost went back to war again."

"Did Asgard and Jotunheim at some point stop having a war then?"

"That's a good point, it probably depends on what you count as war, and who you are asking. What I understand, there is a bit of a cold war situation going on between them." Finland managed to laugh at his own terrible pun. Sweden just put an arm over his shoulders and pulled his significant other against him, because what else was he supposed to do.

Taking a long gulp of his own beer, Sweden decided that to hell with proper diplomacy. Sometimes you just had to live before you got dissolved. "I dare you to use Jotunhemian magic in front of him." He whispered to Finland's ear, and got a devilish laugh in return. "I dare you to filthily kiss me right in front of him." Finland whispered back.

Well, a dare was a dare, and who was he to back down from one. After all, Asgard had taught him to never say no to a challenge.

* * *

Notes:

And then Asgard promptly went and locked himself in the bathroom to have an existential crisis, and NO! He is NOT jealous! Or missing any frozen realms...

btw, the names used for the nordics come from: Hversu Noregr byggðis, old norse account of Norwegian lineages, Svearike is one of the medieval forms of Sverige, Finlonti is a name found carved in old Swedish runestones, and Danmǫrk is an old Norse word for Denmark.


End file.
